Freddy and Mr. Camphor

by Walter R. Brooks

  After the sun had gone the air grew cool, and Freddy got up and walked down the drive to the gates and locked them for the night. Then he came back to the houseboat. He went into the little living room and lit the lamp and sat down in one of the armchairs. He was getting sleepy, but he hated to go to bed. It was such a nice little living room. It wasn’t much bigger than his study at home, but it was much more elegantly furnished. There were two armchairs with chintz slip covers on them, and at the four little windows there were curtains that matched the covers. In the middle of the room, under the big hanging lamp, was a table, and on it were writing materials, and a portable radio, and a photograph album. Against one wall was a bookcase containing perhaps fifty brand new detective stories, and against the opposite wall another case containing more serious works. In one corner stood an easel with a large crayon drawing of Mr. Camphor propped up on it. All around the room close to the ceiling hung framed photographs of famous places like Niagara Falls and the Roman Forum and the church of Notre Dame in Paris. Sometimes it was hard to see the famous places, because they were also photographs of Mr. Camphor, who seemed to have always stepped in front of the camera just before the photographer clicked the shutter. So that they were really pictures of Mr. Camphor with Niagara Falls in the background, and of Mr. Camphor in front of Notre Dame, and of Mr. Camphor against the Roman Forum. But Freddy didn’t mind that, because he liked Mr. Camphor.

  After a while Freddy got up and opened the door to the bedroom and looked in. It certainly was a snug little bedroom, and the white pillow and the peach-colored down quilt looked very inviting. It was nice to sit up, all right, with the little curtains drawn over the windows and the warm lamplight falling full upon the pages of some absorbing story. But after all … Freddy yawned. And then he reached up to turn out the light. And as he did so there was a faint scuffling noise outside the door, and then a very light tap.

  At first he thought it was just the water lapping the hull of the houseboat, but then it came again. He went to the door and opened it. Two large hoptoads squatted side by side on the threshold.

  They blinked their bulging eyes in the light, and one of them said: “Are you the new caretaker?”

  “Yes,” said Freddy. “What can I do for you?”

  “Maybe you can do something and maybe you can’t,” said the toad. “My name is Elmo, and this is my brother, Waldo.”

  “Well, step in, step in,” said Freddy hospitably, and he bent down and shook their clammy little paws. “Very happy to make your acquaintance. And I’ll be glad to do anything I can.”

  They hopped in. “Nice little place you’ve got here,” said Elmo, looking around.

  “If you care for this sort of thing,” said Waldo.

  “Yes,” said Freddy. “I do, you see. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

  “Got any mosquitoes?” Elmo asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Freddy said. “These screens on the windows keep them out.”

  “Poor sort of place with no mosquitoes,” remarked Waldo.

  “I could make you a cup of cocoa,” said Freddy, who, since he was taking all his meals at the house, had not yet had a chance to try out the resources of the well-stocked little kitchen.

  “Oh, no thanks,” said Elmo, and Waldo shuddered.

  “Well,” said Freddy, “I’d like to entertain you. You’re the first callers I’ve had in my new home. But if you don’t like cocoa … H’m. Would you like me to read you some of my poetry?”

  “That would be very nice,” said Elmo, “but—”

  “Speak for yourself,” grunted Waldo.

  “—but perhaps,” Elmo went on, “we’d better tell you why we came. You see, this Mr. Camphor, he’s a very nice man. He’s very kind to all the animals on his estate. He puts out food for them, and he never throws stones at them or shoots guns at them or anything.”

  “He don’t like hoptoads,” put in Waldo.

  “I don’t think he dislikes us,” said Elmo, “but he’s afraid of us. He thinks we’d give him warts if he petted us. But I don’t suppose you could change the way he feels about that.”

  “Perhaps I could,” said Freddy. “Was that what you wanted me to do?”

  “It would be nice if you could,” said Elmo, “but that wasn’t really why we came. We wanted to do him a good turn. You see there are some rats living in the attic of the big house. He doesn’t know about it, because Mrs. Winch hasn’t told him. She thinks that if he knew, he’d want her to get a cat, and she doesn’t like cats. She sets traps, but they’re too smart to be caught. They just spring them with a stick and then eat the bait.”

  “Yes, they’re smart, all right,” said Freddy. “I suppose they steal a lot of food too.”

  “I don’t think that matters so much,” said Elmo. “Mr. Camphor is a rich man, and I guess the little they eat wouldn’t cramp him. But they are destroying a lot of nice things up there. All his family portraits, for one thing. They chew holes in them.”

  “How do you happen to know about this?” Freddy asked.

  “We’ve been up there,” said Elmo. “Would you care to go up and look for yourself?”

  “If you ain’t afraid,” said Waldo.

  Freddy was pretty curious to know how a hoptoad could get into the house and even up into the attic, so he said yes, he certainly would.

  “Come along, then,” said Elmo, and the two toads hopped towards the door. Freddy took a flashlight and followed them. They hopped along the gangway that made a bridge from the houseboat to the bank of the creek, and then upstream a little way until they came to a thick clump of bushes that grew close to the water against the highest part of the bank. Then they hopped right into the bushes and disappeared.

  Freddy hesitated a minute, then pushed through after them. In the beam of the flashlight he saw them hopping ahead of him along a narrow passageway roofed over with planks, which were supported by a plank wall reinforced every few feet with heavy beams.

  “Hey,” said Freddy, “what is this—a secret passage?”

  “Yes,” said Elmo. “Mr. Camphor built it when he built the house. He’d seen secret passages in some old castles in Europe, and he thought it would be fun to have one himself. It’s really secret, too, because even Mrs. Winch doesn’t know about it. We found it last summer when we were looking for a nice damp dark place to live. And then later we explored it. That’s how we found out about the rats. Come on; we’ll show you.”

  Hoptoads can travel pretty fast when they want to. They hopped along at a good clip, and pretty soon the passage began to go uphill a little. Then it leveled out again and they went through a stone arch, and Elmo said they were in the cellar.

  “It’s a funny thing about rats,” Elmo said. “If they just took food you could understand it. But they seem to like to tear up things just for the fun of destroying them. Have you had much experience with them?”

  “Have I!” Freddy exclaimed. “Say, the things I could tell you about rats would make your hair curl.” Then he laughed. “Only of course hoptoads don’t have any hair, do they?”

  “Don’t get personal,” Waldo snapped.

  “Say, what are you so grumpy about?” Freddy demanded. “I’m doing what you want me to, aren’t I?”

  “Don’t mind Waldo,” said Elmo. “He’s just contrary. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Mother tried and tried to teach him not to contradict, but she couldn’t break him of it. Look, Freddy, here are the stairs. They go up in the thickness of the wall. We’d better not talk any more. We don’t want Mrs. Winch to hear.”

  Halfway up the first flight was a landing, and Elmo whispered to Freddy that there were peepholes through the wall on both sides. “They’re too high for us to get up to,” he said, “so I don’t know what rooms you can see.”

  Freddy thought he could see a faint beam of light on one side, but it came through the wall a good foot above his head. They went up a second flight, which was also broken by a landing, and on this landing was a door whic
h Elmo said opened into Mr. Camphor’s bedroom. “At least it snored like Mr. Camphor,” he said.

  The second flight ended at the top in a door, which stood ajar. Freddy had been wondering how the toads had got into the attic, and now he saw that it was because the door hadn’t been closed. For if there is one thing a hoptoad can’t do it is open a closed door.

  The toads hopped through and Freddy followed, pushing through a lot of old suits and overcoats that were hung on the other side of the door to conceal it. And there they were in the attic.

  It was an enormous attic, crowded with trunks and boxes and old furniture and odds and ends of every kind. In fact it was just like everybody else’s attic, only larger.

  The toads hopped off in a far corner. “Here,” said Elmo, “look at this.”

  Freddy turned his flashlight on a row of large pictures in heavy gilded frames that stood against the wall. They were portraits of men and women in old-fashioned costumes—wigs and ruffs and satin coats and even one or two in armor, and they certainly were badly chewed. There was a little brass plate on each portrait, with the name of the subject. Freddy read them. Sir George Camphor. The Right Reverend Wilberforce Camphor. Lady Elizabeth Camphor. His Eminence, Cardinal Camphor. And there were two little boys in black satin suits, with long curls, who were Lord Percy, and the Right Honorable Fitzhugh Camphor.

  There were holes in nearly all the canvases. “My goodness,” said Freddy, “what a distinguished family Mr. Camphor comes from! That was pretty mean of the rats. Look at Sir George; he hasn’t any face left. And the Right Reverend Wilberforce has had his wig chewed off. I’ll bet Mr. Camphor will be hopping mad when he sees this.”

  A faint snicker interrupted him. He swung the flashlight around, and in the darkness under a big wardrobe two yellow sparks glittered.

  “Come out of there,” he said sternly. “Come out and let’s see you.”

  Both toads hopped closer to the pig as an old grey rat came out from under the wardrobe. He twitched his whiskers and grinned wickedly at Freddy. “Well, well,” he said in an oily voice, “fancy meeting you here, pig! What a small place the world is, to be sure. Well, don’t you recognize me? Haven’t you a warm handshake for your old friend, Simon?”

  “No, I haven’t got a handshake for you, Simon,” said Freddy severely. “But I’ve got a neckshake for you if you’re making any trouble, and it certainly looks as if you were.” It worried Freddy to find Simon and his family here. For they were not just ordinary rats. Twice in the past they had caused serious trouble at the Bean farm, and it had taken all Freddy’s cleverness and the help of most of the other animals to drive them away.

  “Dear, dear,” said Simon, shivering in mock alarm, “what a ferocious pig! And who are these two warty gentlemen?” he asked, his slanting eyes darting a look at the toads. “Your bodyguard, I presume. Tut, tut; such tough, sturdy fellows! I expect I’ll just have to surrender. What chance would a feeble old fellow like me have against such a display of force?”

  Freddy would have had no hesitation in attacking Simon, but he knew that the old rat was not alone. Zeke and Ezra, and all the other sons and grandsons would be lurking in the dark corners of the attic, and he was sure that at the first show of violence the whole crew would pitch into him. He wouldn’t have a chance.

  “Look here, Simon,” he said, “I don’t bear you any ill will. But I’m caretaker of this place now. If you wanted to live here quietly, I don’t know that I’d try to drive you away. But this destruction of property is something else again. It’s got to stop. Why, look at those beautiful pictures! Why did you have to spoil them? They aren’t good to eat. And what will Mr. Camphor say when he finds out that you ruined all the portraits of his ancestors, and I didn’t do anything to stop you?”

  “His ancestors! Ha, that’s a good one!” Simon giggled, and his giggle was echoed by snickers from other parts of the attic. “You don’t suppose those are his real ancestors, do you? Dear me, you’re very simple, even for a pig. They’re just a lot of old pictures he bought up different places; nobody knows who they were, least of all your great Mr. Camphor. And as to why we chewed ’em up—well, we just got sick of seeing the things around. Us rats have got artistic souls, pig. If they were good paintings, we wouldn’t touch ’em; we’d sit around and oh and ah over ’em all day. But they’re pretty bad jobs of painting. Why, turn your light on Lord Montague Camphor, there,” he said, pointing to the picture of a languid young man in blue satin who was leaning against a broken pillar. “Look at that nose. Ever see such rotten painting in your life? It probably doesn’t look any more like the person it was painted from than you look like General MacArthur. Why, it’s our artistic duty to chew ’em up.”

  Freddy had to admit that the painting was pretty terrible. “But Mr. Camphor likes it,” he said, “and it’s his property. You’ve no right to touch it.”

  “Listen, Freddy,” said Simon, becoming serious for a moment. “We rats don’t bear any grudge against you. You gave us a break the last time we left the Bean farm, and in return we promised never to come back and bother you again. But you can’t chase all over the country, driving us out of every home we settle in. It isn’t fair. Now you just be a good pig and leave us alone, and we’ll leave you alone. Eh? How about it?”

  “And suppose I don’t?” said Freddy.

  “Ah, that would be just too bad. Too bad for you, and for—” he snarled suddenly at the toads “—those two tattletales!” The toads hopped right under Freddy. “Yes,” Simon went on, “peekers and priers and sneaky snoops; we rats know how to get rid of such people.”

  “Yah! Is that so!” Waldo yelled from under Freddy. “We aren’t afraid of you!”

  “My, my!” said Simon, grinning; “such a brave toad! And quite right, too. Why should anybody be afraid of kind old Simon? Come out, toad, and let poor old Simon pat you on the head.”

  “Keep still, rat,” said Freddy. “And you too, Waldo. You and Elmo go on down the passage; I’ll be along in a minute.” And when the toads had done as he told them, he said: “I’m giving you warning, Simon. If you and your gang want to live here quietly, all right. But if you’re going to destroy Mr. Camphor’s property, I’ll have to take measures.”

  “Take the measure of your own tombstone, pig, if you plan to interfere with us,” said the rat.

  Freddy didn’t answer. He went over and began pulling one of the smaller portraits towards the door. It was a picture of Sir Archibald Camphor, a knight in full armor. The vizor of his helmet was up, but where the face should have been there was just a hole where the rats had gnawed away the canvas.

  Simon didn’t try to stop him. He sat back and watched, chuckling to himself. “What you going to do, pig? Get an ancestor or two for yourself? Let me congratulate you; you have made an excellent choice. I see a marked family resemblance to you in this Sir Archibald’s face. The same soulful expression, the same delicately chiseled features.” He snickered. “‘Chiseled’ is good! And here are the chisels that chiseled ’em.” He showed his long yellow teeth.

  But Freddy paid him no further attention. He dragged the picture out and down the stairs, then lugged it through the secret passage to the houseboat. The toads followed him, and when they were back in Freddy’s living room, Elmo said:

  “Well, I think we did the right thing by taking you up there, but I’m afraid it will get us into trouble. That rat was pretty mad at us. We won’t dare live in the passage any more.”

  “I don’t think he’ll bother you,” said Freddy. “But you can come live here with me if it would make you feel safer.”

  But Elmo didn’t want to do that. Toads don’t care much for elegant surroundings. What they like best is a good damp cellar with lots of bugs.

  “Well,” said Freddy, “why don’t you move into that pile of rocks just beyond the entrance to the secret passage? It’s damp, and close to the water, and it’s certainly as buggy a place as anybody could wish.”

  “I guess we’ll
have to,” said Elmo. “I’ll be sorry to move, though. We have been very happy there.”

  Freddy said he didn’t see why they were so attached to the place. After all, it was just a hole under a rock.

  “It may be just a hole under a rock to you, but to us it is our home,” said Elmo simply.

  “Yeah,” said Waldo, “and now we’ve got to move, all on account of you.”

  “If it’s on account of anything, it’s on account of the rats,” said Freddy.

  “Yes,” said Elmo. “It’s not Freddy’s fault.”

  “’Tis too!” said Waldo. “Why didn’t he drive ’em away? That’s what we took him up there for. And all he did was just stand there and let that old Simon tell him where he got off.”

  “Look, Waldo,” said Freddy; “I could lick Simon in a fight all right. But I’ve only got one set of teeth to fight with, and Simon has a dozen—all his sons and nephews and nieces and cousins. And while I was chewing him up, what would they be doing? There are better ways of getting rid of them than for me to try to throw them out.”

  “Yeah?” sneered Waldo. “What are they?”

  “I’ve got to think about it,” said Freddy. “I haven’t any plan yet.”

  “Yeah, and while you’re talking, the rats chew us up.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t much care if they did chew you up, Waldo,” said Freddy crossly. “My goodness, I thought hoptoads prided themselves on their good manners, but you seem to be proud of having bad ones.”

  “I am not!” said Waldo. “I’ve got just as good manners as you have.”

  “All right, all right,” said Freddy wearily. “I’m not going to argue with you about everything I say. I’m tired and I want to go to bed. Now Elmo, you two better move into those rocks for a few days. As soon as I have a plan I’ll let you know about it.”